Amasa
by Pyro Amedaus
Summary: Amasa is at the top. Top of the charts, bestselling lists, grossing records, and of popularity. The masked members of the band are an enigma to everyone, and the press is having a paroxysm trying to figure out the people behind the flashy shows and pulsin
1. Chapter 1

**Amasa**

**Warnings: Skellerness, music.**

**Feedback: That'd be fine.**

**Beta'd by: Nekuyasha! WHEE! Everyone give the love a hand.**

**Chapter 1**

Gregory Jones used to be a normal little boy with an unquenchable curiosity, an unstoppable drive for information and a flair for writing catchy snippets. Such a combination guaranteed he would be a journalist, and so it came as no surprise to his parents Megan and Timothy Jones, when their son became a hard-hitting writer for the Talon. It was however the first two aspects of his personality that found him living in a rat-hole apartment in the bad part of the city spending his food money on tickets to a concert.

It had started innocently enough, if anything involving that group could be, his boss had simply asked that he do a short feature story on the group because their tour had led them to their town. The band had a stigma of never choosing big, or even well known cities. It was always small out-of-the-way towns that you drive through on your way to a vacation, but don't actually stop at. That was Eagle's View for you; small, unknown, and just big enough to get a spot on one or two really specific maps. He had listed well-known facts on them, the date and time of the concert, and how many people had already arrived to wait in line. Then he had received an envelope in his In-box. Old-fashioned cream paper, with brownish edges, and actually sealed with black wax. The stamp had been familiar to him, having seen it on WebPages, the news, CD's and his own article: the Amasa insignia, a jagged A surrounded by thorns. Inside the envelope was a single ticket stating 'Amasa: Mask or Blade Tour'. So, of course he had gone, stopping off to pick up a simple Zorro mask on his way, as dress code required. The band had not failed the hype, and he had seen quite a bit of it.

He had expected it to be packed with gothic-punk teenagers, which there were a fair amount of, but there were all sorts of people. He was sure he recognized the police chief underneath a dog mask, and the middle school teacher behind one of a butterfly. Adults, grandparents, teenagers all with masks, all brought together by the siren call of a concert. But not a soul under the age of sixteen, as required by the members. They had placed it outside, on the football field of the High School. Even so, when Gregory arrived a massive tent had been erected, no seats, there wouldn't have been room anyway.

It was like a dark circus. The black canvas blocking out the streetlights, but a patch of lighter material allowed a single beam of moonlight. After allowing their audience an hour to talk and mull about, a heart-stopping thunder strike sounded from the 'stage'. Attention focused onto that single beam of light and from the shadows came one slight individual. He went by the epithet Scythe. He played piano, violin, cello, and guitars as well as having a thrumming bass voice. No words of welcome or thanks, or singing or instrument playing. He wore a simple black mask and veil. 1

"The Cirque de Sol is well known for it's colorful costumes, bright and cheerful acts, and amusing slapstick comedy." He said without the help of a microphone. Another thunderclap and the moonlight shifted over a few feet where Arms stood. Known for his flair with drums, cello, and the flute that was only beat out by his hypnotic tenor. "The sun reveals, light offers too harsh truths. The dark is the mask of the world." He stopped and an unsettling smirk curled his tan lips underneath his silver mask. "The dark makes the old young, the ugly beautiful, the night is safe."

The moonlight had widened onto the full stage and the entire band stood around, a fellowship of five members. Three circles around the stage, and one large one in the center. There was no set 'lead singer.' Sometimes only one or two would play, other times the entire troop would go up and create absolute madness. The element of surprise kept them famous, the very things that made them enigmas were the reasons why they had crushed all others underfoot. "Gone are the cheerful faced clowns." Scythe called, sharing his small ring with a 'clown' with stitches across his mouth, in a straightjacket and black hair, face painted inversely from a normal clown's.

"Gone are the golden proud lions." Arms purred as two panthers stalked around his feet. _"The poodles, the seals. _

_Don't worry they made excellent meals."_

"No more trapeze." Wing, under his extravagant hawk disguise. "No cute prancers.

Knife throwers, flaming rope walkers, those are our dancers." He growled, a voice like a knife barely sheathed in soft black velvet.

Even as they chanted a slow steady rhythm arose from somewhere, steady war-drum beats.

"The popcorn, soda, cotton candy, gone." Another member, Serpent, growled "And we are your freak show, feel free to fawn."

"So now that you know."

"And are quite aware"

"We'll begin the show."

"Do not be _too_ scared."

The lights went off so suddenly Gregory didn't know if he had blinked or not.

The rest of the 'show' had continued on that thread, songs complimented by 'acts'. From knife throwing, archery, and gun practice, to show-riding on giant black stallions and jumping right over the entire group of singers. Every single stunt, if the tiniest thing went wrong someone could die, walking on tightropes on fire with no net, playing on thin rungs up a structure, dancing with panthers, fighting with live steel. It was frightening, ethereal, dark, mysterious, and enticing. However one thing remained the same as every other concert. The entire house went dark at the last song and only music reigned, the spotlight on a single microphone.

'_We sing for _

_The Music_

_Not for you_

_You can keep your voice accusing_

_Your scorn is undue_

_Haunting ghosts_

_And freezing wind_

_We will keep our posts within_

_Our Lady_

_The Music.'_

Then the tent flap opened, the real world shoved itself in and the throbbing mob separated itself and returned to their lives, if a little disconcerted at first. Gregory, however, stayed steadfast in the web, and that's when all aspects of his normality crashed and burned.

**A/N **Skeller and my little…uh…tribute? Blatant rip off? Of Broken Warriors. Yes. We love it _that_ much, but really… who doesn't? I owe much to BW… not just in this story

-

If you can't guess who everyone's fake name is we reserve the write to laugh and point at you. I'm entirely aware I didn't mention one. There's a point to that.

Oh, by the way, since FF seems to have a serious problem with stealing other people's works (cause I guess some 'writers' are really slow) if we find out you stole our idea, plotline, or songs… I'm gonna get pissed. - We've already had it happen once.


	2. Chapter 2

**Amasa**

**Beta's by NekuYasha**

"This is Katie Clark for 'Eye on the Stars'. A recent picture was release by the group 'Amasa' in response to the hyped up rumor circulating in magazines about the group's possible break-up. Though they refused to give a statement, ES did receive this in the mail."

All five members of the band, complete in matching outfits and masks, were chained together at the neck, wrists and ankles, in a circle on the beach, in the sand was written

"_Trapped without a key, _

_nobody can free me, _

_but who says I need saving?"_

Katie laughed "I think we can assume that Amasa isn't going anywhere. Now onward to everybody's favorite pop sensation-"

Pictures. Never an interview, never a statement. They never released statements to the press about anything, but for every rumor they always had some counterpoint, whether during a concert, the news, or on talk shows. Just pictures. Eri had them all, she had been a rabid fan girl (and proud of it) since the band had launched nearly three years ago. She even had the original copies of two of them, and these were framed in the room designed for her obsession. The first had cost her $2,345, not including the frame ($10.99) and was the fourth one ever, appearing on ES, dispelling a very nasty rumor that Scythe was getting fat. "I'm not going anywhere losers..." His very flat, very well muscled stomach pronounced, and sure enough he never grew an inch larger.

Her second one had appeared in the papers, when a shaky belief that Wing had died of cancer had arose due to the fact that he had not appeared at all for seven concerts and had been reported visiting the hospital. He simply had a hand buried in his hair and tugging with obvious force. On the ground were white pills that spelled out,

"_I cannot cry for thee, _

_so you will not cry for me." _

In his hand a bottle of eye drops. Apparently he had an infection as a child and had to have his tear glands removed. He was alive and kicking at the next concert, which just so happened to be titled "Tears of Blood".

There were over fifty other photos ranging from religion to politics to sexual orientation to natural hair color (which had appeared in Playgirl due to...explicitness.) They never replied to a rumor, but they seemed to know all of them, Eri haunted over seventy-six different fandoms and shrines, she knew every rumor that popped up, and so, it seemed, did the band. Including the millions of different theories to who each person was. From next-door neighbors, to well-known actors and personalities. The only one they had addressed directly had been the idea that they were escaped prisoners, listing all the possibilities. Those led to the CD, 'Witch-hunt' and over six hundred different ideas were dispelled in sixty minutes.

She had every CD, every possible song, every music video, poster, picture, painting, every possible bit of merchandise anyone could possibly own. None was autographed, because the group didn't sign anything except the pictures they sent, and they were always signed differently. Eri sighed staring at her shrine, several times at the beginning of her career as a fan girl (before she earned the title Rabid, all three seconds of it.) she had been so _sure_ of several identities, she had watched everyone's movements, they way they talked. She had watched 'Dawn of the Dead' more times then she cared to imagine, almost sure one of the extras was Scythe because of the way they stood. However, even that rumor had been tossed to the wayside. She had listened to 'Spirited Away' in Dutch because she thought the voice actor for Haku sounded like Serpent.1 Eventually she had sighed and put her conspiracy theories aside. Everyone went through this, they were always so sure they had found the key and spent a good portion of their lives while the more jaded member shook their heads and growled about 'n00bs'. The n00bs would work at their theories until they became jaded and joined the rest. Except for a few that sunk their claws in and jumped at every possibility.

She stopped at the bonus CD's, one for each member of the band. Each with two songs, one titled for said person (and featuring them.) Her personal favorite was, of course, the charismatic Scythe who, unlike the rest, was always bursting with life and (so it seemed) always seconds from ripping off his mask and telling everyone the truth. He once did a concert with only himself and it had sold out faster than one can say 'Playing With Fire' (which, so happened, was the name of said showing.) Everyone had cameras, sure this would be the night. But for each stop the mask stayed on, though not his jacket, tie or shirt. Though the disappointment was immense, it had still been one hell of a show.

Her actual job was an editor for a small textbook publishing company, an exceedingly dry profession to be sure, but she learned more than you could possibly imagine. Though more of her job was making sure the textbooks were 'politically correct' than actual grammatical errors. Or stopping really bad jokes in math books, as much as she would have like to change them, there really wasn't a way to do so. It paid enough for her small apartment and helped with her obsession.

Yes, Eri was like every other rabid fangirl for all those years, living off ramen and macaroni to get enough extra cash to go to concerts, sleeping on a futon because she sold her bed. Living in a sorry little apartment by an El-train yard with walls thin enough to punch through, and a French landlord that would hike up your prices if you so much as breathed the word 'coward' around him. Then the letter came.

Among the plethora of bills, and magazines that desperately wished to add to her bills, was a small cream colored envelope held together with black sealing wax, and the be-thorned 'A' that twisted and curled almost everywhere you looked. For almost twenty minutes she could do nothing but look at it and shake. She finally summoned her courage and wits and carefully pealed back the wax.

The paper inside was scarlet, and the handwriting was black. She glanced at the bottom, a flourishing 'Scythe' told her who the missive was from. She swallowed and began reading. She was jolted from the first line.

_Dear Eri,_

_Nice to know the hunter cared enough to call back the hounds, they were barking up the right tree. Because the hunter chose not to slay the Phoenix, he would like to grant the hunter a favor. It would please him greatly if the hunter would be so kind as to join the phoenix and his hutch for the...event...the passes provide. _

_Keep the hounds at bay._

_Scythe_

"WHAT?" She burst out and heard a pounding on the wall. She ignored it and read it again. Hunter...hounds... "I was close." She whispered and fell back to read the letter again. When the light shown through the paper the Amasa symbol shown through the paper. A watermark, so it was doubtful it was a prank unless it was an arduously elaborate one. She opened the envelope and a copper disc and a map with a date and address fell out. No...this...wasn't possible.

A joke, a prank...no possible way that she had gotten close to figuring out who one of them was (most likely Scythe himself) and they knew. She had never posted her theories, never mentioned them to anyone. _'How could they have known?'_

Unless it was just some marketing scheme. Send letters to people of a certain fandom, make them think they had gotten close. Then again, how would they have known her name? On any site, all she went under was "DeathsTears08". She went to the library for internet access. Her actual name was Annabelle. There was no way they could know her nickname. It was crazy, impossible, her ever present dream (well… besides getting a gift-wrapped Scythe of her own… but that's another matter.)

She reread the letter and hurried toward her picture, the writing from the letter and from the messages were the same. She fell to the ground in utter disbelief.

Then reality hit her like a brick.

What was she going to _wear_?

---

The showing was, apparently, not well known. Only three hundred or so people (compared to the five to nine_ thousand_ average) mulled around. There was no dress code, but people had generally decided that they should show off their support. 'Amasa' jackets, shirts, pants and boots were the general theme of things. Eri sighed in relief as she joined a small knot of strangers who were trying to guess what was going on.

Then there was the roar of a panther and everyone shut up and stared at the center podium. Somehow Scythe, Wing, Sand and Arms had managed to get 'on stage' without anyone noticing. Arms' pet, Shean, was the creature that had roared. Eri started shaking in excitement, every show with Wing, Scythe, and Arms always proved to be monumentally spectacular. She looked curiously at Sand, he was probably the least known of any Amasa member, he usually stayed out of the spotlight, ignored any (and there weren't many) rumors about him, and rarely went on tours except with the rest of the group, and never without Arms.

He was the question within the enigma.

And, as always, they wore masks. Wing with his flamboyantly white leather mask, with large brown feathers and flashing beads (that somehow managed not to look gaudy), Scythe with a crimson and black helm, and Arms with a simplistic dark green mask and hood. Sand had a hat covering the top part of his head and a turtleneck the rest.

Scythe grinned and leaned casually over his drum set as the crowd mulled and looked around. Arms began plucking at his scarlet guitar, and set himself on a raised stool. To Eri, it always seemed like he completely ignored the crowd for his instrument. Maybe he did. "It never ceases to amaze me when we manage to pull one of these off without the press finding out," Scythe remarked idly and a finger tapped a drum along with Arms. "Those hounds are out to kill, eh Hunters?"

A few nervous chuckles and then utter silence.

"This is not a prank, not a joke, this...this is a reward." He remarked as he stared at the ceiling of the warehouse. "For cleverness at almost finding out who one of us-" He gestured around the small group, "was, and the kindness to stop the search. Our Lady thanks you."

Then he pulled back and began tapping on his instruments in earnest. Sand stepped forward, his viola and bow hanging at his side.

"_For that is why we sing,_

_For that is why we act._

_To worship our Lady_

_So we offer a pact." _

He sang softly into the beat that the other two had started.

"_Call off the hounds_

_Burn all the shrines_

_Let all that be found_

_How the Lady shines."_

The beat to "Our Lady" had somehow twisted itself into the rhythm, and Eri felt herself sway with the crowd. Barely audible, Scythe had begun singing the words.

"_If you let go of us_

_And search to find her_

_You'll go past the nimbus_

_And encounter the world."_

Then Sand began playing almost carelessly, and yet it mixed with the other two and still managed to find links with the band's most famous and played song, without quite copying it. Sand didn't step forward and the mandolin rested against his arm, his other hand plucking almost idly.

His eyes glittered under the hat and he merely said, "Find the truth behind the games."

**A/N **We promise the whole thing won't be random people POV…really…The OC's have a point, really, they do. We _swear_.

1 We've never seen Spirited Away in Dutch, so we have no idea what it sounds like. We don't even know if there's a dub for it. We just thought…Dragon…Wufei…IT ALL MAKES SENSE!

:cough: Yeah.

**Thank you pheonixfirekitsune for catching toe typo/not knowing what we're doing -**


End file.
